Torn(20)

***

It's near ten when I finally see her round the corner. I've been sitting here, on the stoop of her building for more than an hour. The baseball cap and sunglasses I'm wearing make me look more mugger than singer. The sun has dropped but I know that if I show my face, someone is bound to ask for a picture or an autograph. That invariably draws a crowd even if the people gathering don't know who I am.

Everyone wants a picture for their Instagram or Twitter of someone famous, or for that matter, infamous. They think it buoys them in the eyes of their followers. My face has become a token of other people's self-worth. It's all kinds of f*cked up, so if I can avoid it, I do.

It's easier for me in New York than it is in L.A. Most people here are just trying to get where they need to be with as little stranger interaction as possible. In California, too many people want a short cut to notoriety so they'll hang out where celebrities do and they'll scan each face they pass on the street or pull up next to in traffic, hoping they'll see someone they can tag in a photo they post online.

It's surprising how often I can get away with telling the person approaching that they've got it wrong and I'm not Asher Foster. Once the flash of embarrassment on their faces gives way to disappointment, I know I'm free to go.

I did it this afternoon on the sidewalk in front of the gym. A woman, who expertly darted through four lanes of traffic to catch me, wanted anything I was willing to give to her. The touch of her hand on my forearm as she studied my tattoos was aggressive. Months ago, I would have taken her up on her unspoken invitation to f*ck.

Today, I wanted a workout so I told her she had me mistaken for someone else. Her brows peaked as she opened her mouth, I assume to tell me that she knew I was bullshitting her. Then her hand dropped and her head turned when Tyler Monroe hopped out of an SVU stopped at the curb.

He can cook, I can sing. Apparently number one songs are no match for Michelin stars.

I look back to where Falon's approaching. Her left hand tucked into the front pocket of a pair of oversized jeans. The strap of the black bra she's wearing peeking out from under a light blue tank top. With the flat sandals she has on, she looks like she just came back from the beach, not Brooklyn.

She's as gorgeous as she was the first time I saw her. She's perfection. The only thing not perfect is the tall, curly haired, guy walking next to her with his arm draped around her shoulder.





CHAPTER 15


Falon




"What are you doing here?" I glance up at Elijah before I look at Asher again. "How do you know where I live?"

He slips off his sunglasses, his eyes trained on my face, avoiding Elijah altogether. "I heard you tell the Uber driver your address the other night. I wanted to talk."

"I'm busy tonight." I balance a small pink cardboard box in my hands, against my stomach. "You should have called."

"I tried calling twice." He exhales roughly. "That was before I realized you were in Brooklyn. You mentioned you were going there to see your folks."

"Seven, is that Asher Foster? Are we talking to Asher Foster right now?"

Hearing Elijah's excitement brings a smile to my lips. My younger brother loves music. Whenever I go to Brooklyn, I tuck a gift card in my pocket for his favorite music streaming site. I see the same passion in him for music that I had for photography when I was his age. If I can foster that, by introducing him to the actual Foster he can't shut up about, I'm going to gain a lot of big sister points in his book.

Initially, I had planned on asking Asher's manager if I could get one of the finished headshots signed and personalized for Eli. I hadn't even considered an in-person meeting between the two of them.

"Seven?" Asher pulls the ball cap from his head giving sight to his unruly hair.

I look at him not wanting to dive into a long winded accounting of why my younger brother calls me that. It's a nickname I both love and loathe. It's also part of the world I left behind across the river when I moved to Manhattan. Here, I'm Falon. That's who I want to be.

"This is my brother, Elijah. He's a big fan."

I could leave it right there if Elijah could grab hold of the conversation reins and ask a question about the music industry, but he can't. He's shy. He's so painfully shy that speaking directly to Asher isn't likely to happen.

My youngest brother has worked hard to come out of the protective cocoon he's buried himself in. It hasn't been easy but he's making steady progress. The fact that he agreed to come stay with me tonight so we can tour the city's museums tomorrow is proof of that. It's a very small step but it's in the right direction.

"I wish we had brought my guitar with us," Elijah says quietly. "I would have asked you to sign it if it wasn't too much trouble."

I turn to look up at him. He's a typical fifteen-year-old whose height has overtaken his weight. He's lankly and long. He hasn't grown into the stubble on his face or the fierceness of his full, dark brows yet. He's a boy trying to adjust to the world in the body of an almost man.

His hands are both clasped tightly to the backpack he hastily threw things into when I asked him to come spend tonight and tomorrow with me.

"I'll come out to Brooklyn and sign it for you," Asher offers. "If that doesn't work you can bring it to the recording studio one day. We can work on something together. Do you write or just play?"